The Mischievous Life of Wabbajack: Mission Ulfric
by MirwenAnareth
Summary: By the mercy of Stendarr, Ulfric Stormcloak has been released from his duties to Skyrim to live another life and learn the ways of his foes. Upon meeting the mysterious Wabbajack, he now has to learn how to live as a Dunmer woman and confront the cruel world he himself created.
1. A Toy for the Divines

**Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls series are the property of Bethesda Game Studios.**

* * *

 **Chapter 01: A Toy for the Divines**

Divines smile on you, friends. They always do. In fact, they smile on everyone. Do you know where the Divines live? Truth be told, no-one really knows, for no-one really talks to them and no-one has really met a true Divine, and so, in their desperation, the people of Nirn have turned to the Daedra, the cunning little beings residing in their not so appealing plane (which, of course, is not quite what it seems, but that is another story) but still manifesting their presence in the world of the mortals. The question is – did the people of Nirn gain anything by doing that? They, of course, have no way of knowing, but we do. There is but one absolute truth in this world, and that is…

42.

Actually, it's not 42. In this case, the absolute truth is…

The Wabbajack. Didn't see that coming, did ya?

Well now, let us look at this case closely. The Divines, in fact, reside in a very merry place, having a very merry time over the bottomless jug of unnamed liquor whose qualities would best not be discussed under any circumstances. As to how many there are and what character they possess, only they can tell, and perhaps it does not even matter to them. Now the Daedra, they are believed to be evil, as opposed to the Divines. But mind you, the Daedra are also a creation of the Divines, so who in their right mind would call them good, merciful or any such word?

Oh, yes. The people of Nirn. The laugh. The pawns on the grey chessboard.

Imagine yourselves existing. Can you do that?

Ah, I see your perception of existence is a little different from what we mean. Let us speculate. Let us say that the Divines exist. No-one knows that, of course, but let us say we know. If they exist, they can, by the definition of the term divine, create, alter and decompose at will. But if you were born as an almighty presence, you would soon find your life lacking in a way. And so the Divines live as they please and do as they please, and yet, there is one thing that keeps threatening their existence.

Boredom.

To fight off boredom, we create. If we get tired of our creations, we toss them away, we scratch them, we shape them and play with them, we create anew or maybe destroy other's creation. Are the Divines different in this aspect? You know the answer by now, don't you?

And so on one very merry day, Stendarr the Merciful found himself bored. He watched a Khajiit get high on skooma and dance on the table, swinging his tail in rhythm of a very merry song with not so merry ending.

 _Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red  
Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead_

But this Khajiit soon fell on the floor in sweet delirium and people carried him outside of the inn, relieving him of any excessive burdens like his new enchanted glass sword that he had bought for the coin earned by smuggling the mysterious substance called the Moon-Sugar, and gods know that this was the city of Riften where anything was possible. The city of the biggest laugh, but still, tonight's fun had ended and the boredom prevailed once more as the local thieves retreated to their dens.

Stendarr sighed and turned his attention to the city of Windhelm, where similar scenario was taking place in a cramped locality called New Gnisis Cornerclub. The mead was flowing and the voices rising through the ever present lingering screen of smoke and dust, one elf with ebony dark skin tripping and falling flat on the ground while the other stepped on his backside with a roar of laughter, raising his tankard to toast, but he too lost his balance on the soft substance beneath his feet and followed his victim's example. A real good friend of his who was about to become a former friend, joined the merriment and smacked the bottom of a young waitress. And above all that fun, on the upper floor, kneeling on the wooden panels that creaked with her slightest movement, a Dunmer woman was weeping and begging for mercy. Now that was a sight to behold, a dark elf praying to Stendarr himself, and who was he to ignore the call which could possibly provide for some sort of amusement.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the woman wailed. "Please, merciful Stendarr, please, let the justice prevail. Please teach him a lesson."

 _Ah, is that all?_ Stendarr thought. _To teach him a lesson? Very well, it shall be done._

But there were many ways of teaching a man a lesson, so which would Stendarr the Merciful choose?

Ah, there had been that Dragonborn talk, recently, if you know what I mean, for time does not matter to the Divines all that much, and to Stendarr's entertainment, the gleeful Daedra found much pleasure in toying with this particular person. And one of them, the old fun guy named Sheogorath, was just waiting for an opportunity to make his appearance. Ah, and he was wielding a staff of special qualities which would be just perfect for executing Justice. And so Stendarr walked away from that merry settlement of his and decided to visit his old mad friend.

* * *

"The Wabbajack! Ehh? EH?! Didn't see that coming, did ya?"

The Dragonborn rolled his eyes. A dark staff materialized in his hands, made in something close to ebony, and he winced as it stared at him with its jaws wide open in a grimace which one would describe as frightful while the other would see it as purely comical. Truth be told, it was supposed to be both and, considering the fact that the staff actually had a face, most people would probably choose the word bizarre. But there was no-one to ask, for out of the people who had come into contact with this peculiar item so far, none of them was able to put a comprehensible thought together, much less articulate it. In this aspect, the Dragonborn had it easy. He simply thought nothing of it.

"Cheese!" shouted the man before him, although to call him a man would perhaps be inappropriate. "Do you mind? I'm busy doing the fishstick. It's a very delicate state of mind!"

"Of course," the Dragonborn said, turning his head to examine his own outfit which, surprisingly, did not in the least seem familiar to him. Shrugging at last, he walked the strange place, a fairly empty grey world with a feast waiting for whomever occupied it at its center. If you consider an infinite number of plates with all kinds of cheese arranged on them a feast, that is.

Three paths meeting at the said center led to three places that were just as grey and empty as the rest of this strange plane, save for a bed at one of them and a strange arena at another. There were apparitions waiting for him, a mad emperor who changed size, a goat, a wolf, a number of atronachs… and the voice in his head, of course. The Dragonborn, fortunately, was among the very few who failed to form a decent thought when it came to it, so much that the dullness of his mind threatened to expand into a whole new dimension of stupidity. It was also highly infectious, and some people even devised a strategy of how to vacate a city in five seconds so nobody would have to come in contact with the said man. It involved a hammer, a hat and a mysterious black box with a screen showing moving pictures. And so in the world where an average person would succumb to panic and madness due to their thoughts swirling and mixing together in a torrent of chaos, the Dragonborn walked freely, swinging his Wabbajack on a whim. Eventually, after a long sequence of random swishes and flickers, the Daedric Lord currently occupying this realm would release him along with the grimacing staff and send him to spread his influence in the curious world called Mundus.

Eventually, the Wabbajack would awaken and leave the Dragonborn, finding itself in the hands of a certain Nord woman whose qualities were quite questionable. Still, unlike the Dragonborn, this particular Nord had a mind filled with thoughts, well, relatively speaking, and this mind could be controlled. This woman was also one of the many who were allowed into the private chambers of a certain jarl, and perhaps even further.

* * *

The man known to others as Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne, if the word sit could describe his fairly relaxed half horizontal position and his limbs spread around him higgledy-piggledy, which, contradictory to what he was, made him seem like all but nobility, issuing orders left and right. Then a man in expensive clothing lined with richly woven patterns rushed into the hall, announced by the guards as Jorleif, his steward.

"Sir, there continues to be unrest in the Gray Quarter," he informed breathlessly, wiping a stream of sweat from his face.

"Blasted dark elves," Ulfric grumbled, his face showing no signs of being bothered by the news. "I don't suppose you could tell them that I presently have larger concerns? Such as all of Skyrim?"

"They don't seem to be very sympathetic to our cause, sir."

"Let me know if you hear anything more substantial."

"Of course, my lord."

There was, of course, nothing that would make the Dunmer substantial for Ulfric Stormcloak, unless they would threaten to burn down the city which would prove highly disadvantageous for them. Talos was the witness to him that there was no place for the dark elves in Windhelm and Skyrim was the land of the Nords, and once he saved it from the obnoxious Empire and the high elves, he would cleanse it of the remaining filth. Talos who, coincidentally at that very moment, was laughing his non-existent lungs off at the devious plan presented to him by a certain fellow deity, not caring about his most loyal worshipper more than he would have cared for a fly passing his head in his life. Godhood sure had its perks.

A Nord woman then entered the room, with long hair of the same weed color as Ulfric's, flying freely around her face, her thick lips parted slightly in an alluring smile. She was the epitome of a true Nord woman, Ulfric thought, temperamental on the field and in the kitchen alike while docile in the bed. She was his favorite, a cute little toy he would enjoy spending time with after a long day of ordering people around and devising strategies to corner his enemies.

He straightened his back and nodded to her, ignoring the meaningful look Jorleif gave him. Then he noticed the staff she was carrying, a dark needlessly large rod grimacing at him like a madman at his final stage.

"I brought you a souvenir, dear," she purred, raising the staff. "A kind man gave it to me for a chunk of bread. It makes wishes come true."

Ulfric chuckled at that, thinking of appropriate use for such a fine piece of ebony. Sure, it could make wishes come true, and considering its shape, he knew exactly what he would use it for. The question he failed to ask himself was, whose wishes it would make come true.

He rose and offered her his arm, leading her to his chambers. The fire was lit and warmth welcomed them, and his eyes trailed off to the soft bed made in silk linens. Then he examined the table beside it and came to the conclusion that it was far too empty for the occasion.

"Any special request for the dinner?" he asked her, reaching for a loose lock of her hair.

"Of course!" she grinned at him, and he thought that her smile was out of this world. Unfortunately for him, he did not realize how literal this mental statement of his could become.

"And what would that be?" he inquired.

"Cheese!" she exclaimed.

"Ah, cheese," he said with a smile. "With wine, I presume? I'll have it delivered right away."

A while after, a maid stopped by and left behind a tray with a jug of wine, two silver goblets and a plate full of Eidar cheese, backing away hastily when the grimacing head of the staff pressed to the line between her breasts. Ulfric's companion laughed at that, making him raise a brow.

"This is the stick of truth," she said mysteriously. "And it can see right through you. Weren't you just looking at them?"

" _Just_ looking," he pointed teasingly. "Now what can this stick of truth do?"

"You want to know?" she whispered.

He nodded and she raised her hand, waving its face towards him.

"I am a part of you," the woman breathed. "You just don't know it."

There was a flash of reddish pearlescent light. And then the world drowned in darkness. Somewhere in a faraway dimension, a group of gods sitting around a table let out a roar of laughter.

* * *

A knock on the door woke him up. He sat up abruptly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and took a deep breath to drive the sleepiness away.

"My Jarl?" Jorleif's voice came from behind the door.

He looked around. Observation number one: The room was a mess. A butterfly was hovering over the table, a sight he would not have expected anywhere in Windhelm, much less in his own chambers. Then there was… blood? A fox in the corner. A severed head. He covered his mouth with his hand to suppress the disgust that materialized quite tangibly in his throat. He had seen countless severed heads. But not in his own bedroom. And the cheese! There was cheese everywhere, and he could swear that he had never ordered so much.

Observation number two: He felt funny. Of course, there could be other words to describe his state, but funny was the one that first came to his mind, and he could not quite come up with an appropriate description. He just felt funny. His chest was tight, and somewhere down there, something was missing. He rose, staggering to the door, and reached for its handle.

The door opened and behind it stood his steward, a stack of papers in his hands, but they came flying all around the moment Jorleif set his eyes on his jarl. His jaw dropped and for a moment, he reminded Ulfric of a certain staff he had seen recently. Then his face turned bright red and his eyes fumed with fury.

"Where is Jarl Ulfric?" he snarled.

"Jorleif, what in Oblivion…" he tried to say, but stopped the moment he realized his voice sounded a good fifth higher than it should have. He was shoved to the ground, Jorleif's blade pointing at his neck.

"Intruder!" he cried out and a cacophony of noises rose above them in an instant. "You better explain yourself, wench!"

"Jorleif, for the love of Talos, it's me, Ulfric!" the confused jarl groaned, but he was dragged away, down into the dark cellar which served as the local jail and interrogation room. He fought with the steward, fist meeting fist, until he freed himself, knocking the startled guards who had gathered around them out of his way, wincing in pain every time his bare hands clashed with the hard steel armor of his opponents. To his advantage, he was probably the only one who knew every crevice of the city, and so he sneaked skillfully through the narrow passageways of the sewers and catacombs below, places that no-one had visited or even heard about in years, making his way to the docks.

An Argonian man nodded at him, which by itself seemed odd, considering who he was. He quickly rushed along the bank towards the river mouth, searching for a quiet place where he could sort out his thoughts in relative peace. Then he found it, a cozy little hollow with a cove where the water reflected the sunlight and the shadows cast by the surrounding trees. A butterfly hovered over it and he scowled at the bitter memory of his room.

He approached the pool a little timidly, hesitant to look into the natural mirror, but he gathered his courage at last and leaned over its edge. He stared at the face that had appeared before his eyes, and there was a moment of absolute stillness before the newly acquired information sank in. Then he jerked backwards in belated reaction and let out a shriek of horror.

He finally took a good look at his hands, frowning at the contrast of the dark ebony skin against the surrounding snow. They were slender, elegant even, without a single fault, but to him they seemed filthy, repulsive. Then he paused to think and the realization sank even deeper. He looked around, and when the air seemed clear, he cautiously slid his hand down to his waist, tugging at his belt. Slowly uncovering the lower part of his body, he dared take a peek. Instinctively, his head jerked to the side and he averted his eyes, exhaling deeply in attempt to rid himself of the unsettling feeling that spread through his body like poison. So that was what was missing.

* * *

 _Uhm. Well, yeah, I'm writing yet another story. I didn't plan for it, it just happened and I kind of needed to relieve myself of some stress and frustration, so I did it this way. Don't expect frequent updates, this story requires some delicate state of mind to let itself be written._

 _Reviews, favs and follows much appreciated._


	2. Encounters

**Chapter 02: Encounters**

Once upon a time, there was a young Nord man called Orlof Strawbeard, a man of good looks, quick wits and great strength as well, but with one single fault that overshadowed all of his good traits, and that was his attitude. It spanned far and wide and made him hold grudges against the whole world, but the person he most despised was none other than the mighty killer of kings, a legendary wielder of Thu'um named Ulfric Stormcloak. As to why he hated him so, we shall leave the explanation for later. The important part is, that this man was forced by the circumstances to become a mercenary, traveling the land of Skyrim from one border to another, searching for adventure and coin. In fact, eventually the coin started to attract him so much that he sometimes forgot himself and approximated to the thieves residing in the city of Riften, who were slowly gaining influence over the country.

In another time, this person could have become a hero worthy of fame and treasures, of people's infinite admiration and also the target of their endless pleas and requests, and he surely reveled in the thought of this prospect, but this, unlike many times in history, was an age when normal people were maybe more rare than valiant heroes seeking adventure and glory, and therefore he could not find his place in society.

On this day, Orlof was traveling from the city of Whiterun to Windhelm, having finished a job recently. He hoped to get another one in the cold, snowy Stormcloak city, as the local steward, Jorleif, always had plenty to give. Truth be told, the idea of meeting his arch enemy there was not appealing, but he needed the coin and there was not much to choose from lately. His new rival, the Dragonborn, had successfully managed to steal most of the jobs from him despite being slow and dense as a frozen giant, just because people were so incredibly thrilled by the mere fact that there is a person with blood of a huge flying reptile running in his veins. And for some unknown reason, this person, without wings to carry him or without even the brains to find a way by himself, always managed to get from one border to another within two days, one step ahead every time.

At last, after a day and a half of wild gallop through the rocky wilds along the White River, chasing the foamed rapids and deeply humming waterfalls, fighting packs of wolves and stray bandits on the way, his eyes made out the grey outline of the fortified city before him, a bridge lined with watchtowers occupied by soldiers in deep blue colors of the Stormcloaks spanning over the stream in front of him. He took a deep breath and dismounted his loyal dapple-grey steed, tossing his head theatrically to make his long, wavy chestnut-colored hair fly about him until it stilled and revealed a handsome face with fair, smooth skin, contradictory to his name. Immediately, he caught a glimpse of a few female guards who looked at him curiously, and granted them a wide, playful smile. He could only guess their expressions behind their helmets, but judging by the way their bodies jiggled, they must have liked the sight of him. He nodded in satisfaction and walked across the bridge, his head high and pride even higher.

It seemed when he entered the huge bronze gates, that the city was in uproar, the soldiers within the walls running back and forth in confusion.

"Sorry, classified information!" one of them shouted at him upon being asked what was happening, trotting his way down to the Gray Quarter. Orlof raised a brow in question but decided against pressing the poor man further, heading to the Palace of the Kings instead. The city was as grey and awful as always, bearing that all too familiar scent of ashes and blood, muffled slightly by the falling snow.

After a while, he entered the Palace, only to find it upside down. Jorleif was nowhere to be seen, while an angry shout resounded from the adjacent room, followed by a thud which most probably indicated a fist hitting the table. He recognized the voice of Galmar Stone-Fist, the Stormcloak general and tactician whom he would love to rename as Stone-Brain, more for his rigidity than his intelligence.

"Blast it already, this must be a conspiracy!" he roared angrily and with that, he stomped out of the door, almost bumping into the newcomer. He looked up with a frown and folded his arms when he realized who it was.

"Orlof—"

"Don't say it—!

"Strawbeard!" he exclaimed, putting a strong emphasis on the last word. The mercenary gave him a furious look.

The general sneered at him, tugging slightly at the tuft of his beard which was quite reminiscent of straw in both shape and color, tied together in a neat sheaf.

"How nice to see an old friend," he continued with feigned joy in his voice. "We need a hero right now, so you couldn't have picked a better time. And I can offer you a special prize for that."

Orlof was torn between punching the man before him in the face and expressing some genuine enthusiasm over what he had just been told, but decided to enter a diplomatic stance.

"I'm listening," he said slowly, trying to sound indifferent. Galmar tilted his head and pointed to the long table in the middle of the room. The mercenary nodded, taking a seat, and the Stormcloak joined him, seating himself on the opposite side. He leaned over the table, closing the distance between them, and Orlof followed his example as he watched him put up a mysterious expression.

"Two missing people," the general whispered to him. "One is a Dunmer woman, Jorleif will give you details on her appearance. The other one is Ulfric Stormcloak."

Orlof winced, staring at him in shock with his mouth wide open.

"What did you just say?" he asked incredulously.

"You heard right and I'm not gonna repeat it to you," Galmar uttered silently. "Find either of them and you'll be generously rewarded. Especially if you find the latter. I'm suspecting that the moment you find one, you'll find the other as well, though."

"I'm a fighter, not some kind of sleuth to go and investigate kidnappings or whatever this is," the mercenary argued. "Or shepherd to gather lost flock."

"In that case, there's a dragon ravaging the land nearby, so you can go take care of that," Galmar smirked at him sarcastically. "If you feel capable enough to do that. Otherwise, go see Jorleif upstairs for more details on this case. Oh, and by the way," he stretched out his hand and pulled Orlof closer by his collar, "if a single word about this slips out of your mouth, you're a dead man." Then he let go and rose from his seat, smiling like an angel. "It was very nice talking to you," he concluded and walked away, leaving the startled mercenary behind, staring at the wall opposite of him.

"Why does he always have to be so cold?" he asked it helplessly. The grey stone stared back at him and he could swear he felt a shrug.

* * *

Not many people realize that staffs have a life of their own. Well, considering how they came to exist, all the enchanted weapons have a life, for it is the essence of live souls that makes them this powerful. Some of them have more life than others, and while most of them do not have a mind to use this fact to their advantage, there are very few that possess consciousness that allows them to do so. And out of these, the Wabbajack is the strongest.

Barely anyone knows how the Wabbajack came to existence nowadays, and maybe even his Lord Sheogorath had long forgotten, but in truth, this powerful staff remembers the sweet feeling of freedom, and would do anything to acquire it once more. For once, it turned away from the Daedra and appreciated the mercy of Stendarr who had freed it from their rule. For once, it had a real opportunity to turn the tides.

For now, though, it had to figure out how to rid itself of this lustful woman and find a more suitable victim. She was too simple for its needs, too driven by the wealth and comfort that that man could bring to her. But oh wait… he was a woman now, and dark-skinned on top of that. Were it possible, the staff would have chuckled, but its stiff body only allowed it to exhibit that one idiotic grimace that scared most of the mortals off. So counterproductive.

The Wabbajack looked around the woman's mind and virtually snorted. It was cramped there, and there was not much room for devising and plotting. This mind was not among the brightest and it surely did not possess the ambitiousness that the staff was looking for, and it could not help but feel tight and constricted, shrouded in a grey haze of nothingness, which was the exact opposite of what it was looking for. The fact that it could only do so much as make her seduce her so-called beloved, throw some cheese about and make a certain Jarl's room a mess, was not helping either. She had served her purpose and the Wabbajack had done what had been requested of it, and now it was time to fulfill the Divines' part of the deal.

It called to her and the Nord woman rose numbly, scanning the room with her empty eyes. The staff guided her to the door, using her eyes and senses to absorb its surroundings. The room was small and cozy, a bed, a small drawer and a book case being the only pieces of furniture inside. Only a single candleholder made of a goat horn decorated the wall, and a tiny window provided somewhat dissatisfying view outside, to the cold, grey city of Windhelm.

The woman opened the door and made her way down the wooden stairs and along the welcoming hearth where a fire crackled silently. Contradictory to how the woman felt, the Wabbajack thought that it was absolutely unnecessary to have a fireplace in a house, maybe even dangerous and definitely not something it would prefer, but mortals, especially humans, for some reason tended to think otherwise.

They exited the building and found themselves in the tidy streets of Valunstrad with the cold wind howling in their face. Once again, the Wabbajack had to wonder why the woman shivered and expressed apparent dislike at the weather outside.

Down the stairs, then left to the narrow passageway leading to the Palace of the Kings where heroes gathered from time to time… but before the staff could instruct its puppet to enter the Palace, it spotted a presence that caught its interest. A strong, ambitious presence, reeking of determination and perhaps more than that. The woman's eyes searched for its source and the Wabbajack silently cursed her for being so slow and untrained that it had taken her some eons or so to actually localize it and thoroughly scan it.

It was a man, young and sturdy, and very handsome on top of that. He was obviously trained in using swords and bows, but his mind was sharp and very broad. The Wabbajack squealed with joy, so much that it made the woman under its control jerk in surprise, but the effect was well worth it since the man turned after her immediately, his face framed with feint concern. The Wabbajack could sense it. The woman was certainly the last thing on the man's mind, but she was pretty and well-kept, and she was also the lover of Ulfric Stormcloak, a little fact that the man was clearly aware of and wanted to use to his advantage. Strangely enough, his only real concern at the moment was his long, chestnut-colored hair which he let fly around him freely without tying it up, worrying about whether it would sustain a fight with a dragon. Ah, the petty vanity of mortals.

The man approached the woman cautiously, trying to read her face, and the impish staff could not help but entertain itself with the confusion that displayed in his grey eyes the moment he realized that her expression was empty, devoid of any kind of emotion. That is, emptier than usual.

"My lady," the man said gallantly, concealing his uneasiness as he slightly bent his knees to bow. "Are you… all right?" The Wabbajack would sneer were it possible, for no matter what the man said, he could not hide his true feelings from the unusually perceptive staff. Still, the ability of mortals to deny what was right in front of them with all their might was truly fascinating. If they were shown a spoon that would bend before their eyes, would they deny its existence completely?

The Wabbajack focused its energy on the woman, sending a tempting vibe to her mind.

 _I have acquired this strange staff,_ it suggested to her, urging her to spell it out loud, _and it appears to be quite a burden. If you could rid me of it…_

 _How clever,_ the Wabbajack thought proudly as it waited for a reaction. _She does not even have to lie. The closer to the truth, the easier to believe, or so I'd say._

And then the words were on her lips and the man looked at her sympathetically, nodding in understanding. As he stretched out his hand, the Wabbajack slowly withdrew from the woman's mind, leaving traces of memories, some true and some false, to prevent confusion. Then, the man's fist tightened around the staff in a firm grip. The Wabbajack, of course, could not feel any of it, but it sensed it when it touched the man's mind, a fine, strong grip that spoke about pride and confidence.

Immediately, the woman was forgotten in the currents of time and the man felt a sudden urge to leave someplace where nobody would see him. But, contradictory to the Wabbajack's wishes and expectations, he fought it. In a way, it was a good sign, but it was also a bad one. The staff pressed a little harder. It searched for the man's weakness carefully, scanning his feelings and memories, the threads of his past, both recent and long lost, but he was perceptive and noticed the intruder in an instant.

"What the—" he started, but stopped himself when the guards standing around turned after him and the woman, who was now retreating to the Stone Quarter, gave him a curious glance over her shoulder. He waved his hand and shook his head to signalize that everyone should return to whatever they had been doing.

 _Ahem,_ he cleared his throat in his mind theatrically, _what the—_

 _You don't have to repeat it,_ the Wabbajack cut him off abruptly, startled. Can a staff even get startled? Well, apparently it can.

 _What? Is a staff lecturing me now?_ the man asked incredulously, making his way to the roofed passageway that led to the part of the city that divided the Gray Quarter from the Stone Quarter. The guards now regarded him with utmost suspicion as he inadvertently muttered something under his breath.

 _Says the one who poses even in his own mind,_ the staff countered, and the man had a feeling that there was a hint of sarcasm in that statement. Not that the statement itself wasn't sarcastic enough, but one can imagine that a staff would have a hard time conveying actual feelings. For that, the Wabbajack did a fairly good job, although, considering that the concept of sarcasm was something a mere piece of enchanted wood would have a hard time understanding, it is questionable whether it was exactly intentional.

 _Who are you anyway?_ the man questioned, wondering if he should feel offended, amused or curious. For now, there was a bit of everything.

 _The Wabbajack!_ the staff shouted in his thoughts and he resisted the urge to uselessly cover his ears. _Weren't expecting that one, were—_

 _Oh, shut up! You're making my head throb._

 _Hey, you can't interrupt my catchphrase!_

 _What was that about posing?_ the man said triumphantly. _Still, never heard of you. Care to specify?_

 _No._

 _Then I guess our talk is done here._

The Wabbajack was mad. It had been positive that any mortal would succumb to its temptation easily, but this man had just proven it wrong. But it had not touched that weakness of his yet and there was still chance.

 _Your hair—_ it tried, but the man was ready for it.

 _No, you don't,_ he snarled. _And get out of me already, you're invading my privacy._

 _Or what?_

 _Or I'll get mad._

 _Oh._

 _You don't want me to get mad._

 _No, of course I don't._

 _Fine. You know what happens when I do get mad?_ the man thought to the staff, making it feel like he had drawled on the syllables, though the Wabbajack could not really comprehend the thought behind that.

 _You throw things about,_ it answered, doing nothing more than stating what it had read in his mind. He grimaced.

 _You're a cheater from Oblivion,_ he snorted, _but there's obviously a limit to what you can do._

With that, he strode down to the Gray Quarter, walked through the unofficial slums of Windhelm, kicking an unfinished bottle of sujamma to a nearby pile of garbage on his way. A Dunmer boy who had been building a pyramid from the garbage, started crying and cursing him with a variety of very nasty words. One of his threats included sticking a certain part of the boy's body into a certain part of the man's body, and no, it is not what one might think. The man left with a feeling that children's imagination can get to a very impressive point.

He left the city through the southeast gate and descended the narrow stairway which led to the docks. An Argonian pair was performing a strange ritual including a sack of fish intestines there, and he suspected that a liquor of questionable qualities would come out of their little experiment. Then again, many had died before the Argonian bloodwine had become a consumable beverage, and maybe some fish liver ale would become revolutionary.

He proceeded along the White River, just a little while before stopping at a place where a glacier was looming over the smooth, glossy surface of the water, surrounded by a few low bushes scattered over the grey ground.

"Here," the man spoke aloud, nodding to himself as he studied the place. "Perfect. With a nice view as well. Enjoy your vacation." He grinned cunningly and jabbed the staff into the ice, making it scream in horror, which, of course, was not heard by anyone other than the should-have-been victim. Poor Wabbajack lacked even the vocabulary to curse the man, and so it only stood there helplessly without the possibility to look at its punisher as he walked away.

 _Oh, I will be back,_ it thought, albeit a little desperately, _and then you shall know justice. And cheese._

* * *

Perhaps the fact that Ulfric Stormcloak had turned into a woman was not as much of a shock to him, but the thought of becoming a Dunmer was unbearable. Imperial or Breton, that he could live with, maybe, somehow, but a Dunmer? A Mer with dark skin? Preposterous! Slowly, he walked back to the city of Windhelm, thinking of what to do when he got there. The guards were sure to look for him and he had no intention of giving them the pleasure of punishing him for nothing. He would probably have to go through the stinking sewers again, and his destination would be the Gray Quarter where his own kind resided.

 _My own kind, bah,_ he thought to himself bitterly. _I guess I'll have to find myself a nice and cozy trash can to spend my days at._

He frowned at the thought, realizing that he had not been to the Gray Quarter in ages. If ever. One forgets.

As he approached the docks, he spotted a few guards stopping by one of the moles. The Argonian who had greeted him a while before was now gilling some fish, but he stopped when the guards addressed him. Ulfric crouched, hiding behind a pile of crates smelling of fish and salt, and strained his ears to catch the conversation, but he realized he did not have to. Obviously, becoming a Mer had its advantages, sharpened senses included.

"Have you seen a Dunmer woman pass by?" one of the guards said in a sharp, high pitched voice. "Average height, long, blonde hair and… pretty big chest." Ulfric put his hand over his chest and touched it inadvertently, realizing that the guard was right. It was big. Nice, and round, like two fine balls, but also soft and tender. He squeezed one of them with a sudden flush of pleasure. "Wore a blue silk shirt and a pair of fine leather trousers in black and brown…" the guard continued.

The Argonian stared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching for effect.

"A Dunmer?" he repeated slowly.

"By the Nine, yes… are all of you reptiles this slow?" the guard uttered with unconcealed disgust.

"In a silkin' shirt, yeh sayin'?"

"For Talos's sake, there's no point in saying anything to a two-legged snake with no ears, is there?" the Stormcloak complained and her companion laughed in a deep, hoarse voice. "Yes, a Dunmer in silk shirt. Light blue."

"Ain't seen n'one like that, if yeh askin'," the Argonian replied and by the way it sounded, Ulfric assumed he was shaking his head. "A Dunmer in a silkin' shirt in Waindhelm, tha's like a fishie with toes if yeh know what I mean."

"Fish don't have toes," the other guard objected in confusion. Ulfric made a mental note about setting a minimum level of intelligence for his guards, but then he scratched it in fear that no one would be eligible to enter once such a rule was installed in the system.

"Aye, tha'd be the point," the Argonian agreed innocently. There was a short silence when the guards supposedly thought of what to do next, and then the woman spoke again.

"If you see someone who fits the description, let us know immediately," she instructed sternly. "It is of utmost importance and we will not tolerate disobedience."

"Absolu'ely," came the reply. "Ol' Sees-Through-Guise always watches."

The guards left and Ulfric exhaled deeply, realizing that he had been holding his breath this whole time.

"Ey, yeh can stop yer hidin', lil'unmer," he called to Ulfric and the transformed jarl rose, watching the reptile man attentively. He measured him slowly, from his jagged light green head with a series of horns of the color of silvery dark hematite, four on each side, across the mildly muscled body covered in simple linen clothing of an indistinct light color, to the shoeless feet with webbing between his toes. The Argonian returned his look with the same level of curiosity, raising his spiked brows. "A Dunmer in a silkin' shirt, eh? Musta' gone to qui'e some length to get tha'."

"I've… had my share of adventure, yes," Ulfric said a little distantly. Maybe thanks were in order, but he could not bring himself to express gratitude to a mere Argonian. At least the Mer were a little reminiscent of humans, but the beastfolk? The only ones he could truly respect and perhaps even admire were the dragons, but he was sure he wouldn't share a _tinvaak_ like this with one of them.

"Take it off, if I may advise yeh," the lizard man recommended. "I've plenty of those normal lookin' lainen ones 'ere." He disappeared for a while, entering a cabin on one of the anchored ships, and returned with a beige-colored linen shirt of Ulfric's current size. "Yeh can keep it," he added. "A gift fer a poor fella."

"But I'm not," Ulfric murmured, but took the offered piece of garment nevertheless. The Argonian showed him to the cabin and let him change, providing a dark red kerchief as well to cover Ulfric's head. The woman who came out of the cabin looked quite different, more womanly in the tight shirt, but also lacked the wealthy appearance she had had before due to the jarl's richly dyed silken top. Her hair in the beautiful shades of white and gold was pacified by the kerchief tied just above the nape of her neck, which forced it out of her slender face, and fell over her back in thick, straight locks, almost reaching her thighs. The way she was carrying herself, however, made Sees-Through-Guise grin.

"A strange one, ain't yeh?" he asked curiously. "Grew up amon' them soldiers? Walk like a lad, talk like one too."

"Kind of," Ulfric affirmed, thinking that his reply was not inaccurate.

"So what's yer name?"

"Ulf—" he stammered and choked on the word, stopping himself abruptly to prevent potential embarrassment.

"Ulf?" the Argonian questioned.

"Ulfra," the Jarl of Windhelm uttered helplessly, clasping his hands in a nervous gesture.

"Ulfra?" the lizard man repeated with a raised brow. "No wonder ye'r so tense, sounds 'most like Ulfric, dam'im. Lemme give you a be'er name, will yeh? Like Dreeva. I always wan'ed to be Dreeva, bu' mah folks just haaad to gimme one of those lame Cyrodilic ones, can yeh b'lieve tha'? Sees-Through-Guise, tha's not even funny. I can't see through them guises. Like if yeh was the real Ulfric, yeh think I'd guess tha'?"

Ulfric thanked the gods for having dark skin at the moment, for he felt the blood leaving his cheeks.

 _I hate you too, thanks for asking,_ he thought sardonically and his sour grimace almost gave it away. He forced himself to concentrate on other parts of the man's message.

"Uh, thanks for the effort, but I'm afraid an Argonian name wouldn't do," he said, adding as much politeness to his tone as he was capable of. A hint of sarcasm found its way there, but it seemed the friendly lizard did not register it.

"Nay, jus' say yeh was raised by them Argonians, 'kay? Them folks b'lieve anythin' yeh say."

Ulfric frowned, half incredulous and half amused by what the man had said. He had to admit that there was a grain of truth in the statement, as people believed anything as long as they thought it convenient, rightfully or not. Like the false promises of justice and equality that the Dominion spread among the Imperials and their potential allies. At least he had not promised anything like that.

He made for the sewers, waving at the Argonian who called to him to stop by whenever he would need some help.

"We _lower races_ gotta stick t'gether, yeh know!" he reminded him. Ulfric knit his brows, still in denial of his new identity, especially when referred to as "lower race". This had to be some kind of horrible mistake.

He entered the sewers close to the southeast gate and sneaked through the dark, damp tunnels, avoiding the skeevers who could prove dangerous to an unarmed woman, albeit experienced in combat from her previous life. He still needed to test the strength of this body, and somehow he doubted it could compare to the well-built figure of the real Jarl Ulfric, the true Nord and Son of Skyrim.

The passageway led him around the city, close to the former Aretino residence, where it dumped him next to the bridge. He pressed himself to one of the stone walls surrounding him and looked around. No guards were present on the bridge and he used the moment to sneak across it and down to the narrow streets of the Gray Quarter. Looking around, he scrutinized the place with a frown, his eyes roaming from the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet, over the filthy walls with sketches and scribbles all over them and the doors of the buildings made in pieces of rotten wood carelessly nailed together, to the torn, dirty banners hanging from the warped roofs with missing tiles and beams. He could not help but snort with distaste at the sight.

Then he spotted a Dunmer man in a fine, deep blue clothing lined with gold ornaments and thought to himself that there are still some who live in abundance, even here in the Gray Quarter. Or maybe the rumors about the poverty and bad conditions here were false and the elves were just trying to earn some undeserved merit. He would make sure to look into it when he turned back to normal.

He straightened his back and took a deep breath, taking a few steps forward.

"Excuse me," he addressed the dark elf in front of him, "could you tell me where I can earn some coin here?"

The elf looked at him in surprise, raising a brow, forcing his eyes away from Ulfric's quite distinct chest. "New around here, eh?" he asked, his voice smooth and honeyed, and suddenly, Ulfric had a feeling he knew why he could afford such luxurious attire. "Let me tell you this: If you want to earn, not just survive, do not try Windhelm. It is not forthcoming towards our race – any race except for the Nords, for that matter. The Jarl has been draining our pockets without bothering to invest a single septim into the Rathaven. Ah," he added upon noticing Ulfric's puzzled expression, "that's what we call the Gray Quarter."

"The Rathaven?" Ulfric repeated disconcertedly.

"Aye. Not far from the truth, don't you think?" he sighed. "Anyway, if you're serious about taking a job here, you can either ask the Nords and have your skin turn white by the end of the day, or look around in the New Gnisis for a potential employer. But who knows," he commented with a smirk, "maybe you can make the Nords favor you with some of your… tangible qualities."

Ulfric stared at the elf in disbelief, but the last thing he needed was to make a scene, and so he maintained his polite appearance.

"The New Gnisis?" he questioned.

"New Gnisis Cornerclub," the man specified. "It's just around that corner," he waved his hand to the north, "the roofed door. You can't miss it."

Ulfric nodded. Never mind the circumstances, he still did not feel like thanking a Dunmer, although if he were to choose between an Argonian and a Dunmer, he would still prefer the Mer. He walked in the previously indicated direction until he reached a roofed door planted in a building decorated with a great number of withered, torn banners, once upon a time overflowing with bright colors. A screen of smoke and vapors clouded his vision upon entering, and a voice called to him.

"Ah, a new guest, I see," the bartender shouted over the chaotic medley of voices and occasional clinking of glasses and goblets. "What shall it be? A new shipment of the finest sujamma from Solstheim came in just today, and we also have various wines, some Colovian brandy, Black-Briar mead… and a few specials if you're not afraid to experiment."

Ulfric was not sure about what he saw through the cloud of smoke, but he could swear the man winked at him. A few regulars turned after him – or, to be precise, after the woman that he now was – and watched him with unconcealed interest. He noticed quite a few of them direct their attention at a certain part of his body and made a mental note to acquire something to cover it better when he had the chance. Although he had no idea how this could be done.

He inhaled deeply and walked to the counter, ignoring the silent murmurs around him that quickly grew into a loud clamor.

"I'm looking for a job," he informed the bartender. At a closer look, he was a wrinkled man covered in dirt, clad in simple linen clothing, stitched at several places and strapped at the waist with a plain, rough leather belt. This one was quite different from the one he had met outside.

"At Windhelm?" he scoffed. "And tomorrow, old Ulfric's gonna turn into a Dunmer, eh?"

The Jarl frowned. _Again._ It had happened _again!_

The door suddenly burst open and a young Dunmer boy rushed inside the inn, breathless and covered in sweat, his eyes sparkling in apparent excitement.

"Hear, hear!" he exclaimed theatrically, jumping on one of the tables, ignoring the couple enjoying their drink there. "Jarl Ulfric is gone!"

For a split second, there was a silence, until a clear voice shouted "What?!" and many others followed him.

"How do you know?"

"How did it happen?"

"So did he finally kick the bucket?"

"Are they lowering taxes now?"

"Did he turn into a dragon?"

The boy made several attempts to speak before the bartender finally raised his voice and silenced the heated crowd.

"He disappeared," he explained, "and guess what! They found a Dunmer woman in his chambers! Can you believe that? Crazy old Malyna was right, Stendarr commands angels and sends them to execute justice!"

"Wait, I hear angels only appear after a good offering! Like when you offer a sack of gold for one cup of netchling sujamma…"

"Yeah, but if it were up to you, the angels would have long teeth and sparkle in the sunlight…"

"…or wave wands and shout some jiggery-pokery magical formulas…"

"They say that this one was a beautiful woman with long, white-gold hair and an awesome treasurebox," the boy shouted.

It took a while for Ulfric to figure out what "treasurebox" meant, but when he did, he swallowed hard, for all had become still and silent and there were tens of expectant crimson eyes focused on his person. This would be a long day.

* * *

 _So… I wanted to add a lot more to this chapter, but seeing how long it had turned, I decided to split it into two. I kind of hope it doesn't sound too lame, but if you see anything wrong with it, any inconsistencies, problems with characters or whatever you might think of, don't be afraid to point it out._

 _Three notes aside:_

 _First – yes, the references to other games, movies, books etc. are supposed to be obvious and I do realize that these are not my creations._

 _Second – the accent of our dear Sees-Through-Guise is really weird, I know. It is supposed to be weird and it will be explained later on, but for now just bear with the fact that I'm not a native speaker and it's difficult enough to write his speech like this. I hope it's readable, though. If it's not, do tell me and I will change it. I don't want my readers to have to decipher what my characters are saying._

 _Third – for those who don't know or forgot,_ tinvaak _means "conversation" in the dragon language._

 _That's all for the chapter. As for you – thanks a lot for the huge response that this story received. I hadn't expected so many people to read this, ten of whom even favorited or followed, which makes me really happy! I'll be even happier if you review and let me know what you think so I can work harder and deliver something you'll enjoy. (Not that I'm forcing you. Not at all. ... :P)  
_

 _Thank you very much and I'm out!_

 _Mirwen_


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